PLAYING THE VIOLIN AND HOW TO AVOID IT – REDUX

courtesy of: Copyscape.com

What a riveting start to a post. A list of the post you are about to read and the places you can currently read it. All are legitimate, with the exception of "Otto Benjamin Violins, blah blah." Unless you are fluent in Cowface and Dingbat the site is unreadable, but this is how my friends, Andi Roo and Aaron Brinker brought to my attention the fact that my deathless prose had been gasp! stolen.

(IT SHOULD BE NOTED, IN THE INTEREST OF OPEN AND FAIR DISCLOSURE, THAT THE READER WILL NEVER FIND OUT HOW TO AVOID PLAYING THE VIOLIN BY READING THIS POST)

I first unleashed this little gem on an unsuspecting world back in early August of 2012, and it went on to become one of my most “popular” pieces, right up there with my “nameless guy who fell down in the Falcons' Superdome and was horrified” and “E. T. Phone Home” posts. This piece also has the erm, distinction along with a couple of other nameless pieces of being stolen and sold on a now-defunct “for-content” website. How ironical, I jestically say, as I've never earned dime one for my blatherings. There's a reason for this. I get PAID (or I used to) to play music and not for writing verbiage. Maybe I should be paid to not write verbiage; I haven't a clue as to whether I'm any good or not as a writer, I just know that from the age of fifteen, I wrote, and understood English at a post-doctoral level.

Einstein wrote his “General Theory of Relativity” and I read an English translation of it. I cannot say whether it was riveting or boring; it got the point across, but it lacked something of the elegance of his little E = MC² equation by pages and pages and so on and so forth. I think my writing is a lot like that. It's kind of hilarious to me that someone “stole” my piece and sold it, when I wouldn't have the balls to try and peddle my own jun -, er, work, yet, in solidarity to my writerly friends, and I owe them much and they depend on their writing for a living, I went the whole route of writing the “publisher” and kindly requesting they remove my piece. I kept it light and airy and the piece was removed within 24 hours. The website disappeared shortly thereafter.

I'll bet he was fun in a string quartet!

I owe what little writing talent I possess to my parents who were very well-read, and downright scholarly in their own ways. My mother held two degrees, and my father, never having graduated from high school, lied his way into the Air Force, went to the Flight Academy and flew B-29s for roughly three years in the Korean action, until he mustered out on a medical discharge, after two crash-landings. That's two whole more flights than I ever want to have endured, WITHOUT the crashing. He continued to fly, privately, as did my mother; I think they were both a pair of loons. I loathe flying. 

 

 He was the epitome of cool; he brought me home from the hospital and was my primary caregiver until I started kindergarten. He and my mom were great together, until they weren't, due to her own mental illness, but she was a star, too. My folks had the hearts of lions.

He then attended college; went year-round and graduated 3^rd in his class. Maybe there were only four students, but he was pretty bright. He did all this while caring for me, as my mom was working three jobs. To keep me quiet, he played a combination of Glenn Miller, Beethoven, Richard Strauss, Tchaikovsky, Tommy Dorsey and Debussy on the Hi-Fi, but not all at once, so he could do his homework. I was a preemie and tended to be fussy. Music was the perfect panacea and the only thing I ever loved deeply and passionately. I love working with computers, but that is more about problem-solving and it kind of sucks as performance art; no one is going to pay for an evening of watching me code, or resolve a system issue caused by the r.schmitt trojan virus. Boring stuff.

My Ma was no slouch in the brains department, either. While working on her second degree, a B.S. in Psychology, she was programming in Fortran, a machine language hardly anyone uses. I found her books, after her death. Since she was taking no classes, she was either plotting a takeover of the world, or writing games for her own enjoyment. I would bet the former.

I went to college on scholarship, and was a lazy student, due to having perfect pitch. But, I have since learned that without music in my life, my life had lost it's anchor. To make this short and sweet, I was diagnosed with essential tremor, after having exhibited symptoms for years and harboring latent symptoms for decades. I finally had to stop playing altogether. This is a condition much like Parkinson's Disease, without the heavy medications; call it “Parkinson's Lite” if you like, but it can be every bit as horrible as Parkinson's, with core tremors and psychosis. I have all the inherent symptoms; tremors, drooling, no sense of smell, I stagger, occasionally and stutter when excited. It also has deep psychological components and at times those were ruinous. But, I found an awesome, awesome neurologist, who found a good medication that mitigates the core tremor and has allowed me to resume my mostly abnormal, life.

Me, the sole offspring of the two pilots above, on the left, with a touring buddy and my partner in crime, "Wolf", a superb viola made only ten years after the death of Beethoven in 1827. I'm happy, because I'm NOT playing the violin!

In fact, I have started playing AGAIN, and have auditioned and am playing in the Tampa Bay Symphony, a group I started with 20 years ago, when I first moved to Tampa. So, I'm currently practicing up a storm, and participating in some clinical trials that I hope helps people farther on down the road. The Parkinson's Foundation has been very, very good to me and I am fortunate indeed to have found them. But that is not what this post is about. It's about playing the violin. Now, that I'm back in the harness, I have to say once again, it is to be avoided; at all costs.

Ring ring!

Me: "Hello!"

Manager: "Hey, Mary. Are you doing anything the week of November 20th to the 25th?"

Me: "Well, let me check my calendar." Sound of pages flapping in the breeze. "Hmm, nothing but the “Merry Parade of Turkeys” and “Turkeys, We Got Your Turkeys Right Here with Skitch Henderson Sound Alikes." At this time, I am living in Charlotte, North Carolina. I am also still playing in Tampa and pretty much driving all over the south. I am also exclusively playing the viola.

Manager: "So, you have open time?"

Me: "Yes." To my everlasting regret, I said, "Yes."

Manager: "Great! I need a violinist for..."

I didn't hear the rest. I was in shock. I told people for years that I didn't play the violin. I never played the violin. I hadn't played the violin since I was sixteen, and here I was at 45. I play AT the violin. I still don't play the violin. I hate the screechy little suckers. They're all under your chin being little and screamy. What the hell is that? I just hate it. The only reason I started to "play" the sons of bitches is because I got sucker punched and caught unawares. I didn't even own a violin for years. I refused to buy one. I rented one for years and a student model at that. I figured since I didn't play the bastard, I wasn't going to be pretentious about it and get some big, souped-up Lamborghini violin or something. I have a Lamborghini viola. I rented a violin with steel tuners, tin strings, and tape on the finger board which I never, ever, ever allowed any of my students to use. That pussy Suziki shit with tape is beyond horrible. If you can't use hand-framing and play by ear, like the God Galamian intended, burn that hunk of wood. You don't deserve to call yourself a non-fretted string player.

courtesy of: collectibleviolins.com

Aargh! No, it's not "Talk Like a Pirate Day!" Those tapes! When you shift positions, the intervals change! It's impossible to develop your "ear" assuming you have one to begin with, if you're using tape as a "guideline" Fluidity counts. Not everyone is meant to play non-fretted instruments; those folks need to stick to "Guitar Hero!"

So, I'd rent these god-awful violins with tin strings and "play" in these violin sections, in the hopes that people would get the hint and quit hiring me to "play" the goddamned violin. I'd play loud. Real loud and shrieky, when the music asked for piano. I'd ask my managers shit like, "why the hell are you hiring me to play the violin? Did every other violinist in Tampa die/migrate/go on vacation?" They still hired me. I tried drinking my way through rehearsals and that didn't work, because everyone else was out smoking blunts during the breaks; they couldn't tell stoned from drunk.

People thought I was a good violin player; I guess because I didn't give a damn and was reckless; I was the Nic Cage of violinists raging around on my rented violins. I started ending up in first violin sections, so it got exponentially suckier. You know what really, really sucks? Playing Mozart on the violin. I hate Mozart. I hate Mozart, MORE than I hate the violin, if such a thing were possible. Because Mozart's a pussy. He gets right up to an idea and says “never mind” and plays mezzo-forte, before limping off into the 600^th pianissimo iteration of the same shit he wrote over and over and over and over. Yes sir, there is Hell in a barrel right there. Eighteen ledger lines above the staff and I'm playing "guess the note." I can't even read that shit. It's in soprano clef. I normally read the viola clef. Okay, I read soprano clef just fine, but when you're up towards the direction of the sun, weirdness starts to happen, physically. Purple becomes yellow. CRYSTAL-BLUE PERSUASION! Mountains walk. Cats do algebra. The horn section is being played by The California Raisins. I look down, unsurprised to find that the stage has turned to lava, when I hit some of those harmonics. My stand partner's hair catches fire. God knows my ears are still ringing.

I was laughing about it though, when I thought about all the variations and different types of gigs and positions I've held. I played with Styx and I can't remember how this came up, but it is also the same with a Johnny Mathis tune; one of his “Brazilian” set. "Sail Away" which is so lovely, is an absolute bitch to play. It consists of 64th notes, practically in its entirety. Denis Deyoung's father was part of the OSS in WWII and was one of the first to reach Paris, with the Allies. You can hear the Chopin and Debussy in Styx's music. An interesting little bit of trivia along with the silly today. There, aren't you edified?

Styx's music is challenging and we had a lot of fun playing it. But, one of the things that does happen with playing that type of music, is you lose the edge on your heftier musical "chops" as we call them. We were touring pretty extensively at the time with Styx and "Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto" -ing all over the place and having a hell of a lot of fun. In the midst of this tour, we had a layover and and my trio, myself, a violinist and cellist, picked up this "fun" gig and none of us were exactly slouches. Being the, uh, "professionals" that we were supposed to be, we show up for this luncheon or whatever the hell it was to provide "background" music and proceed to play trios, for a couple of hours. I just grabbed a bunch of my trio music and off we went.

Beethoven is my muse; he's always been in my life. I auditioned on his 5th Symphony and won it. I am a rock-and-roll violist!

Now, it is axiomatic that the fewer instruments you have, the more difficult the music is going to be, especially if you are going to play, oh say, Beethoven. If we were going to play, Johnny Mercer, we might have stood a chance, or maybe, some Beatles transcriptions, but Beethoven? It was... interesting. I have played all of his String Quartets. They rock. His Trio in C Minor rocks. It also requires lots and lots and lots of practice. Playing Styx's "Mr. Roboto" for 18 weeks straight does not constitute practicing Beethoven's trio. We all learned a valuable lesson that day; leave the Beethoven at home, if you haven't looked at it in the last, say, week or so. Thank god the Luncheon guests were drunk.

#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE – LETTER “T” – JAMES THURBER

JAMES THURBER

James Grover Thurber, born 8 December, 1894, died 2 November, 1961, was an American cartoonist, author, journalist, and celebrated wit. He was best known for his cartoons and short stories, published mainly in The New Yorker magazine and collected in his numerous books. One of the most popular humorists of his time, Thurber celebrated the comic frustrations and eccentricities of ordinary people.

I first read James Thurber's My Life and Hard Times, at about the age of eight or nine years old. I don't remember learning how to read, and I was reading singularly advanced literature by the age of eight: I read Harlan Ellison's short story collection Strange Wine, when I was nine and was captivated by it, but one of my all time-favorites and life-long loves has been the American author and humorist, James Thurber.

James Thurber, circa 1926.

Before starting this post, I knew a bit about his early life, He attended Ohio State University, although did not graduate, due to an early childhood accident. He was playing a game of William Tell with his brothers William and Robert, when an arrow pierced his left eye, which left him blind in that eye and he would subsequently lose the eye and later become almost entirely blind. Unable in his childhood to partake in sports and other activities because of his injury, he elaborated upon an already creative mind, which he then used to express himself in writing and with his cartoons.

How do you answer that?

Some neurologists have suggested that he may have suffered from Charles Bonnet Syndrome, a neurological condition that causes complex visual hallucination in otherwise mentally healthy people who have suffered some degree of visual loss. Thurber himself wrote of this in his short piece The Admiral At The Wheel. Before I became partially-sighted, I could imagine him seeing things far down a road and his mind filling in pieces; now I know this to be a fact. I see all sorts of strange things, up close and far. It must be noted however, and laughingly, that I am not mentally sound. Still, there was a mouse that ran through my computer room recently, the size of a canoe, that had me jumping into the closet. My roommates can attest to the mouse, but not the size; since I have no depth perception cars and mice are the same size to me.

The picture would seem to suggest a much larger-than-normal hippopotamus, but completely ignores the question of why it is present in the first place.

James' mother Mary, was a comical and creative woman who James described as a “born comedian” and “one of the finest comic talents I think I have ever known”. She was a practical joker; on one occasion pretended to be crippled and attended a faith healer revival, only to jump up and proclaim herself healed. This says much about his accounts in stories like The Night The Bed Fell, where before the end of the night, such mayhem has occurred within the household, it's a wonder there weren't more deaths by accidental shooting, or falling, or poisoning in the Thurber household. Add his hypochondriac cousin, Briggs Beal who must be woken every hour with spirits of camphor, to prevent his dying in his sleep, and you have the makings of total disaster.

James Thurber loved dogs unreservedly and wrote of them humorously and movingly. He said once, "If I have any beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have know will go to heaven, and very, very few persons."

I can relate. Once when home ill from school, I heard my mother answer the door, and went downstairs to see who it was. There was my Ma, frenetically waving her hands at a batch of Jehovah's Witness ladies, pretending she knew American Sign Language. I, at that moment, had a 3-foot piece of twine over my head, with both ends tied to a wire coat-hanger and had my fingers stuffed in my ears, banging the coat-hanger into things to “hear” the vibrations, in my red-and-white striped PJs, with feet. I was 16. I said, “Ma, what in the hell are you doing? You're not deaf?” Caught in the act, she jumped, turned, and looked at me, and hollered “Well, you don't look too sick!” The JW ladies looked at the two of us, and fled. Ma and I howled. It was a “Thurber” moment in the house, one of many. But, I digress.

The Pet Department - Dog

Q. No one has been able to tell us what kind of dog we have. I am enclosing a sketch of one of his two postures. He only has two. The other one is the same as this except he faces in the opposite direction. - Mrs EUGENIA BLACK

A. I think that what you have is a cast-iron lawn dog. The expressionless eye and the rigid pose are characteristic of metal lawn animals. And that certainly is a cast-iron ear. You could, however, remove all doubt by means of a simple test with a hammer and a cold chisel, or an acetylene torch. If the animal chips, or melts, my diagnosis is correct. 

                                                                                                                James Thurber, The Thurber Carnival, 1945

From 1918 to 1920, at the close of World War I, James worked as a code clerk for the Department of State, first in Washington, D. C., and then at the Embassy of the United States, Paris, France. Upon his return to Columbus, he began his career as a reporter for the Columbus Dispatch from 1921 to 1924. During part of his time there, he reviewed current books, films and plays in a weekly column called Credos and Curios.

                                                                                                                                 Thurber's Airedale

James moved to Greenwich Village in New York City, getting a job as a reporter for the New York Evening Post. He joined the staff of The New Yorker in 1927 as an editor, with the help of E. B. White, his friend and fellow New Yorker contributor. His career as a cartoonist began in 1930 after White found some of James' drawings in a trash can and submitted them for publication. Thurber contributed both his writings and his drawings to The New Yorker until the 1950s.

                                                                                     The Night The Bed Fell

Many of his short stories are humorous fictional memoirs from his life, but he also wrote darker material, such as The Whip-Poor-Will, a story of madness and murder. His best-known short stories are The Dog That Bit People and The Night The Bed Fell; they are found in My Life and Hard Times, the creative mix of autobiography and fiction which was his “break-out” book. He wrote The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, The Catbird Seat, A Couple of Hamburgers, and If Grant Had Been Drinking at Appomattox.

                                                                                                                               The James Thurber Audio Collection, Keith Obermann, Narrator

If Grant Had Been Drinking at Appomattox

James also wrote about his time in Paris and his confusion with the French language. This echoed the later confusion he would sow with his maids, most of them African-American, who he would befuddle with lesser-known synonyms, when they came at him with their own colloquialisms. “It only enriches the confusion,” he noted later.

Illustration from The Day The Dam Broke

In France, he once cut himself with a knife, and left to his own devices, as his wife was out for the afternoon, this led him to run screaming through the lobby “I am sick with the knife!” in broken French. Luckily, Helen arrived in time to sort out the confusion and tie up the wound. With his seemingly endless parade of housemaids, one he was quite fond of, would come to him and say, “Ooh, Mistah James, the front yard is full of flickers!” James would whip out his Thesauras and ask, “Are they making arrows?, thinking that perhaps they were fletchers. The maid would say, “Um, no, Mistah James”. James would then run through a list of improbable things from wheelwrights to coopers, before finally getting up and looking out the window to see his front yard full of finches.

Self-portrait

I know what he means about enriching the confusion; he and I are alike in more ways than one. I delight in engendering confusion around me and a lot of the time it is on purpose. But much of the time, it IS truly accidental. If I'm not following myself on my own blog, I'm rebutting myself under the name of “Andi-roo” who runs theWorld4Realz. Thank God she was her usual good sport, with a “Girl! You crack me up!” I'm not nearly as funny as she thinks I am. Like Thurber's people and his animals, I'm just making my way through life; if I find an opportunity for a good one-liner, or a hilarious article about some of my own stupidities, or my crazy homeless house-mates, narcoleptic stand partners, or stupid ex-husbands, I'm all for it. Otherwise, I'm just bumbling along, enriching the confusion with my patented Confuse-a-What™ making everyone's day a little brighter. Maybe.

#ROW80, #IWSG THURSDAY, BECAUSE I SLEPT THROUGH WEDNESDAY. . .

Poor #ROW80; they probably wonder if I'm still alive. #IWSG is more than likely under the assumption that I'm some mass hallucination. I wonder myself. At least Damyanti of #teamDamyanti is aware that I am a real person; sort of. . .

I honestly meant to be on-the-ball this month; really. But once again, life happened, and as is my wont I tend to be secretive, when I most likely shouldn't be. Blame it on Asperger syndrome, being an only child, hating most of the human race, being shy, having low self-esteem, high self-esteen or knowing that interaction with most of the hoi-polloi ends in tears, regret, shattered dreams and on occasion, spilt blood; not mine, but theirs and one begins to understand why I am rather comfortable with my own company and ill at ease with people I do not know. 

Thanks to Mr. Jesse Libecap and theworld4realz.com and the entire Roo family for my wake-up call today!

So, what does this have to do with missing my #IWSG check in? JC had to be put into the hospital again, and this time it was for his heart. What should have been done months ago, and was ignored by his primary care physician, finally caught up to him. It was discovered by his Gastroenterologist, who flat-out told him that he would not perform and endoscopy on him until his heart issue had cleared up. My railing at JC over the phone whilst in the G.E. doctor's office did nothing, because he is a stubborn man. Alex's hollering did nothing. So, we let him come home. This was February 24, 2014.

We finally got him to the hospital on February 26, 2014, when I refused to speak to him for 2 days. I turned my back. Every other gambit had failed, but this. JC has had little love or interaction in his life, but I knew this was one thing he could not bear. I stopped interacting with him at all. He would walk into a room; I would walk out. It tore me up inside, and yes, it was cruel, but it worked. He gave in and went to the hospital. Alex and I visited him and made him laugh; JC and I are never angry with one another for long; there is too much love and we have cared for one another through so much, but I am not ready to let him go. As I told him, "I'm not through making you miserable in my attempts to make you experience happiness!"

The amazing thing is, the human body is hard to kill. The heart catheterization did not have the desired results, so for now, the doctors are using a combination of medicines to break up the calcified stent and the surrounding plaque. If this does not work, then, they will be forced to do a surgical bypass. Good thing I remembered all of that crap from the good doctors at the University of Michigan hospital, almost 40 years ago. 

JC seems to have weathered it well, better than his princess of a cat, Mama, and myself. Mama, of course looked for him constantly, and with him gone, she was forced by me to remain inside the entire time. No half-ajar doors, where she has the run of in-and-out; it is far too dangerous a neighborhood, with me here by myself to leave any door open. So, for about five days, I chased her around, with a spray bottle and picked up the stuff she knocked down. I didn't sleep well, and wouldn't have anyway, with JC gone. My Parkinsonism, requires lots and lots of sleep, and when I don't get it, I find that the Primodone, while helpful, still leaves me fatigued. The muscles on the right side of my body seem to have been weakened and my right eye-lid starts to droop. A lovely sight, I'm sure. 

Before my 2nd eye surgery, I could sorta do this. If this came in blue, I'd totally own it.

So, after JC was home, and we had settled in, I took off up to our favorite Sweetbay/WinnDixie to get his medicines. In spite of what I said, I am amazingly strong and a good 2-mile walk was what I needed to blow out some of the tension and anxiety. The muggers have learned to leave me alone after their last botched attempt, so I am safe. I grabbed the meds and a few items and stuffed them into my backpack in the front of the store.

Whilst doing so, I knocked over this poor gent's bike with my cane. I felt terrible and hoped I hadn't hurt it. I was trying to pick it up and I heard "Hey! That's my bike! Don't be takin' my stuff!" I whirled around and said, "I'm so sorry mister! I knocked it down! I hope I didn't hurt it!" He saw my cane and pack and bags, and asked "Could you wait here while I get my stuff?" I said "Sure! I'd be happy to!" He went back inside and got his things and came back, saying "Lawdy, lawdy, they put the grapes on the bottom, then the eggs and the canned goods on top!" He got it all arranged, as I was arranging my stuff.

Where I live, the bicycle is the primo method of transportation, unless you're a drug dealer or a pimp. The gent's bike didn't have quite this much stuff, but he had several 6-packs of water, a dozen eggs, grapes and canned goods on his handlebars. I've seen some contraptions in my time, running up and down Nebraska Ave., 33602, 33605, and some really, really fine looking rolling iron that is not owned by the upstanding citizens or V. M. Ybor.

Then he looked at me and said, "Can I help you to your car?" Then, he looked again, at my cane and glasses, and said, "Oh." This isn't the first time I've been asked this. "Nah, I'm taking the bus," I said. "Okay, well have a great day, and thanks!" He started to peddle away, and stopped and started laughing. "I forgot to unlock my bike!" I looked at him. "I have that effect on people. I sow confusion, wherever I go. It's my confuse-a-what™ and I'm really good at it." He said, "I can see that. Goodbye" Off he went.

I just made it to my bus and got home. I showed JC all of the items that he could make for himself that were easily fixed and heart-healthy. I gave him his meds and realized that I was so tired I could hardly move. Alex and I had made egg salad with 35 eggs that the church had provided on Sunday, so I had a sandwich and laid down for a nap at 3:30 pm on Wednesday, March 5, 2014. I woke up, today, at 2:10 pm. Yep, I was tired and that was some nap. JC is comfortable and seems willing to do what the doctors are asking of him; I hope he complies. Only he can do that; I am the most compliant patient on earth. I am non-compliant in every other aspect of my life; and oh yes, I do challenge my doctors. But, being compliant and going along and trusting everyone, got me to this point where I have nothing to retire on; after helping husbands get degrees and all. You hear me, Lithia? I will outlive JC; my health is much better now than it was 25 years ago, but my attitude is much, much worse in regards to "letting things go". I will fight for JC and I will fight for myself, as well.

A reminder! Theme Reveal for the A-to-Z Blogging Challenge is March 21, 2014. The Sign up is here. I am part of #teamDamyanti and our goal is to assist you in choosing a "theme" for your A-to-Z Challenge, 2014!

DRAGON'S LOYALTY AWARD

Dragon's Loyalty Award presented by M. J. Joachim

This is a great thing that has been bestowed upon me. By accident, or as collateral serendipity, or something like that. Lemme explain. Last year, I took part in a blogging challenge at the spur of the moment, rather like I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) last year, and actually "won" both, by finishing. The other challenge, for those not in the know, is the A-to-Z Challenge, where, during the month of April, you write a short post every day starting with the letter "A" and finishing up with "Z". It works out because every Sunday during the month, it is "dark" (a musician's and actor's term) wherein you don't post or write on that letter. If you finish the challenge, you get a  nifty badge that you display on your blog, which I did, much like the one I got for NaNoWriMo in 2013. You also get some street cred for finishing the damned things, because you gut out the writing blocks and all the inherent other stuff, like. . . uh, life. 

Two years ago, I wrote exactly 1637 words for NaNoWriMo and quit in total misery, because I was in the throes of undiagnosed Parkinsonism and that shit ain't fun. I've been able to take everything else thrown my way, but that was truly debilitating, both mentally and physically. Now, that I'm under treatment (some people wish I weren't as I am busy making their lives a merry Hell for past indiscretions, but I was too sick) I feel 20 or 30 years younger. I believe in the quality of persistence over time and it applies to all things, so maybe this is a good award for me. Dragons live forever. 

So, too, do challenges, and friendships. This is my second year on the A to Z Challenge and I am proud to be a member of #teamDamyanti. I did have a bit of confusion over this award, which is nothing new with me. I've done such jack-a-nape things like follow my own self on my own blog, when I was trying to answer a reader's comment and argued with myself under the pseudonym of Andi-Roo over suicide, when I performed a hurried cut-and-paste job, that was really just a cut-and-paste-paste. That floated around in the cyber sphere for several hours before I caught it and fixed it. Andi's response? "Ha ha ha! Girl! You crack me up!" Of course, there's always the time I thought I was doing good for the homeless in my area, in a post, that had a horribly juxtaposed picture: 

Admittedly, some of the stuff the ex-cons at FSJ, my old homeless shelter, used to concoct between pinochle games looked worse than this, -- scrunched-up cheetos, ramen soup noodles and anything else dumped into a single-serving size potato chip bag, add water and eat with a spoon and called "goulash -- this was NOT on purpose!

I'm legally blind and have a very weak right eye, and my left eye has dark cast that makes it hard to see and read. Sometimes I have to read things 8 or 12 times, or come back and give it a go another day. I've been legally blind for 10 years, so am used to this, but it makes for some interesting interpretations and I tend to "skim" a  lot of text. So, today, I just realized that M.J. Joachim had awarded the Dragon's Loyalty Award to the entire Team of Co-hosts and their Minions, of which I am one. Color me. . . confused?

No, I'm not. Well, okay, kinda sorta. I mean, I just show up and try to do what I'm told. It is an honor and I have to tell 7 things about myself, then award this to 15 bloggers and visit them and pass on the love. Consider it done, M.J., and thank you so much for this award!

I started playing the violin at age 11, but realized my mistake and switched to viola at age 15. I did not pick up another violin until the age of 45, when some idiot in Tampa hired me to play the violin on a gig, while I was living in Charlotte, North Carolina and had a free week. I guess all the other violinists between Charlotte and Tampa died or left town that week. I had to rent one for the gig and I rented the worst thing I could find in the hopes that I would never be hired to play another violin again. It didn't work. More idiots hired me to play the violin. I still hate the violin. The only thing worse than the violin, is playing Mozart on the violin; that right there, is Hell in a barrel. Give me Beethoven, or better yet, Shostakovich, or something with lots and lots of 16th notes, except for the slow parts; I love slow parts and can e-mote like a mo-fo and have a gorgeous sound. Or rather, I should say, Wolf has a gorgeous sound.

I own a viola that was "born" 10 years after Beethoven's death in 1827. My Florenus is of the Bolognese school of fiddle-making and was built in 1837. His name is "Wolf" and he was named by the luthier who appraised him and insured him. I've owned him since I was 19, and he's lasted longer than any of my marriages. He's a much better partner, too. At 177 years old, he's considered a young adult in the fiddle world. 

Wolf's hand-carved scroll; a trademark is the crudeness of the work; the House of Florenus is known for it. It certainly doesn't hurt the sound. His 2-piece back is "matched" up; 2 "tiger stripes" run down either side of his seam.

 

 My viola bow was "engineered" and built by an aeronautics engineer out of Germany. Many modern bows are now built by former engineers and their sons. In the old days, bow-makers, like Tourte, Vuillame and Withers observed birds and watched the shapes of their wings as they flew. The wood is pernambuco.

The 2nd Liston-Ali fight, which secured Ali's place in the history books. Ali's trainer, the late Angelo Dundee took time out to talk to this boxing fan when he was working a young fighter in Tampa, circa 1999. This sport is rich in history, heart, love and tragedy. It is Shakespeare on a 20-foot canvas rectangle.

 

I am a HUGE boxing fan. Boxing is the quintessential art of physical and mental abilities melded together. Boxing history and lore is some of the most fascinating in the world, and the very best boxers possess the minds of chess-masters and the quickness of cats. The fighters have the hearts of lions and are some of the kindest people I have ever met. Boxers do not fight out of anger, but they practice an old and gladitorial sport that has lost relevancy in the modern age. Much of the arm movement and pronation is echoed in the musical world, as is the pace of a Championship Match. I've met many of my musical colleagues at boxing matches.

My only other secret is this: my psychiatrist, who is also an internist calls me his "Google" for all things "Parkinsonism" (I explained the DaTScan process to him). When I started to exhibit overt symptoms, without knowing what I had, I started to learn, from what I could glean on the internet, my own primary care physician and from support groups on Facebook and Twitter (I only had Medicaid, which did not pay for any Neurology testing or medication, at the time). My greatest source of information is YumaBev who has had Parkinson's Disease for many years, and is a dear, wonderful friend, and such an inspiration! I have Parkinsoism, or essential tremor, or "Parkie Lite" as I am calling it, for I exhibit every one of the symptoms, yet my substantia nigra produce Levadopa, thus I am on a much different drug regimen. But, as is my wont, I faced it head-on and went back over my own family's history and believe my mother suffered from it, as well, which would speak in favor of e.t., as that is a "familial tremor" and therefore, inherited. We are now facing the idea that this may also be altered by certain protein combinations, or by gene therapy. 

That's pretty much all I have to say about me; I still get to play my fabulous Wolf without it sounding like a machine gun, although my performing days are behind me.

If you have NOT participated in the A-to-Z Challenge before, I urge you to try it! It's so much fun and you'll get to meet bloggers from all over the world. If you want to plan your challenge around a theme, please, please please, contact any one of us at #teamDamyanti, or sign up here:

A-to-Z Challenge

#ROW 80 POST 44 – WE ARE YOUNG AND HAVIN’ FUN 2012

"We Are Young"  fun. Official Video

Sorry PSY; I love you and Berklee College should be proud, but fun. rules!

The title says it all. This post is about all of the stuff in 2012 that made me laugh. When I laugh, I feel young. And dammit, I love to laugh; it is the best high, the best drug in the world and I love to share it with people. I don’t care how stupid it is; I laugh at a lot of stupid stuff and myself as well. When I lived at FSJ, homeless shelter, there were a few of us who laughed all the time, at, well the expense of others… but they didn’t know they were being laughed at, so it was okay… sort of. Anyway, moving on, here’s some of the funny shit of 2012, in no particular order; stuff that made me laugh and I want you to all laugh too:

1)         http://www.theworld4realz.com/cotton-swab-causes-emergency-room-visit/

I’ve tried to tell you why this is one of the most serious funny pieces I’ve ever read, but I can’t stop laughing long enough. The dialog between Andi-Roo and her Hubz, talking to Andi-Roo’s mom, the dawning horror of Andi-Roo when she realizes what the nurse really means by “safe at home,” and it’s not big shards of glass on the floor or cleaning her ears with a knife, or the “dumb-ish” nurse, the whole piece is flat-out hysterical, even on like the 5^th reading.

I've heard the adjective "fearless" applied to ol' Nic here. Maybe he should get some. Fear, I mean.

2)         Is actually a post I can’t find, but it has this very boffo picture of Nic Cage in bear suit in “Wicker Man,” a remake of the 1973 “classic.” I do have the picture and I’ve posted it here for you to enjoy, but back to Nic; I never saw either of the “Wicker Man” movies; the older is supposedly classic, but I hear the newer one sucks out loud. I ran across this picture in a “Worst Movie of…” on Cracked.com. There are not enough superlatives to describe what I felt upon seeing this picture. Feel free to supply your own.

*Burp* I wonder if I have Briefcase-Breath?

3)         Lion Drome. I actually thought JC was going to have to take me to the hospital for this. I literally stopped breathing during this awesome post on Cracked.com by Robert Brockway. Having “PD or non-PD, that is the question,” for some reason, also causes me to laugh harder and cry harder and to call Mr. Brockway, “Bwockway” for some reason. I hope he has gotten over that. I bought his book, too. Eventually, I may be able to read it. If my eyes ever settle down. In March. In the meantime, check out this “Executive Lion,” or better yet, read his whole post @ 

http://www.cracked.com/blog/15-old-photographs-that-prove-world-used-to-be-insane/ and a tip of the hat to Mr. Robert Bwockway, who has provided me with hours of hysteria and apoplexy. Enough clap for him and on with our merriment.

4)         This is something that I ran across in our freebie newspaper that comes out 5 days a week, the Tampa Bay Times. It’s called the “Zim Bear.” The link connects to the whole post and the post itself is interesting for a couple of reasons. I wrote it during a very brief period of lucidity, when I was writing my S.I.F.O.T.S. blog, on March 2, 2012. It’s actually kind of hilarious, in hindsight, now. February 29^th, 2012, I wrote, “Chthulhu Doesn’t Live Here Anymore,” which was wishful thinking on my part. He lives here part-time now. I just collect the mail and water his plants. I really should write a follow up post, “Chthulhu, is that Yhouhlhu?” but I so confused myself just trying to type that, I think I’ll leave that moment of whimsy alone.

So, the rest of THAT month is pretty sketchy and some of this I don’t remember, but this is when the tremors moved in and stayed, along with my bipolar symptoms, for real. If I weren’t so damned rational and old, I’d probably have jumped off the roof. The fact that I understand what is going on, makes all of the weirdness pretty easy to deal with. That and the hella medicines my psychiatrist makes sure I get. The Tampa Police Department are good to me as well. “PD or non-PD, THAT is the question?”

5)         Oh! Speaking of. @YumaBev. I cannot have a list of hilarity without the Numero Uno funniest lady on the planet! Funny was still abed when she got up. Over at Parkinson’s Humor, I couldn’t believe it when she was trying to figure out a way to live blog her DBS surgery! Yup! That’s our girl! Only Bev would come up with that corker! A crappy day won’t dare show it’s face around her! I laugh just thinking about her. YumaBev is one of those people that when you think of her, you’re glad to be a member of the human race; she’s that great. Without her and others like her, Jim and Penny Adams, Cyndee Bowen, and P.A.N.D.A., all  tireless workers, their grace and insights, it would be so hard for anyone with Parkinson’s or any Movement Disorder to understand and deal with and try to navigate any of the medical care systems and understand more importantly, the symptoms. Bev and her (now mine, too) buddies are reassuring, and fun. Back to more fun.

 Check out Bev's websites Parkinson's Humor and YumaBev.com and @YumaBev on Twitter. Her book Parkinson's Humor is available on Amazon.com and the proceeds go towards a cure for the disease. A worthier woman and a dearer one to my heart, would be hard to find in this hemisphere.

6)         Spiders. Yeah, I know. Most of the world (of 15 readers?) just jumped off my blog, ¼ of you went ewww!. The rest of us went, SQUEE!! It depends on the type of spider. Nikki McCormack wrote about them and started with the cute little fuzzy type of jumpers and I can’t believe anyone thinks those are icky or scary. We have a batch of them that live on our porch banister and they have their little territories staked out. Once in a while, they bump into one another and jump! Turn and dart off, very synchronized. I think they’re cute as hell. They stay outside and don’t intrude on anyone else’s space. I loved Nikki’s description of Harvester spiders; something about walking death, as I recall.

We did have an interloper; a brown recluse got in the house, when we were living in the homeless shelter. JC got him, we were moving anyway; that was just a little added incentive. We had already been dealing with bedbugs. We didn’t need rotting flesh on top of that.

Anyway, check out the world’s funniest video on why not to film a jumping spider:

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/a2ab701e7e/why-not-to-film-a-spider

7)         So, this gets us to the 2012 Presidential election, with all the signs, portents and many important issues and timely questions and serious discussions. The tone was pretty well set by the world's largest and continuous, party, Twitter. I thought that after 2000, the election was an aberration, because it took a month. It turned out I was wrong. The election of 2012, according to who you listened to, was a continual ongoing work of art, a Noh drama, bushido in style, or a train-wreck. Romney, Ryan, Rovian and nothing less than epic. The fact that Hurricane Sandy intervened and Governor Chris Christie got to play Orestes to Romney's Agemnon made it all the more epic-er!

What made it so extra-fun was being IN Twitter and reading and sometimes even trying to come up with witticisms in reaction to the shit that one Mitt Romney was saying, however, our fearless leader, President Obama was holding his own, and Mr. Chuck Wendig an awesome, awesome writer, who blogs "Terrible Minds" was also adding to the hilarity with his #fakedebate; once again, JC was at the ready, poised to dial 911, when I came up for air:

I can honestly say that I have never, ever enjoyed political discourse so much. I am sure that Mark Twain, H.L. Mencken et. al,, would agree.

8)         Winding this up, I thought I’d include one of my own idiocies. I come from a family that celebrates its idiocies, much in the way Rome allowed her generals to celebrate victories with triumphs. The only dilemma here is which of my many stupidities garners the honor.

Could it be the time I followed myself on my own blog? That was a good one, but wasn’t really all that complicated and didn’t require the level of air-headedness or denseness necessary, nor the prolonged state of confusion I typically exhibit.

How about the time I “rebutted”  Andi-Roo on a #ROW80 post about Suicide and then, in a swift, rapier-like and extremely cunning move, worthy of Errol Flynn and Dr. No, I submitted MY post title, with HER verbiage, so SHE rebutted HERSELF? The editor, Wayne Borean was probably swamped; knows us both and just went with it. The twin posts festered around on the internet and on Paper.li for a few hours before I caught the error and fixed it. A huge MEA CULPA followed and lots of falling on my cyber-sword. Andi-Roo, was vastly amused, as I knew she would be. Thanks Zeus for that wonderful woman. Had it been anyone else, I would have had to change my name and move to Neptune. That’s not really quite showy enough. I could go back and scratch around in my old blog posts and what not, but I’m just too damned lazy.

This stupid Parkinson’s Disease, not-Parkinson’s Disease, that is the question leaves me tie-rd. I sleep 11 or 12 hours a night sometimes. I got up today around noon. Ate breakfast, took vitamins and I’m ready for a nap. I digress. PD, or non-PD seems to be a lot like the elephant in the room. I keep wanting to pretend that everything is the same, but my damned brain will not allow for that.

So, I’ve got what seems to be a perpetual geek show in my head. Everything is weird. “Chthulhu is that Yhoulhu?” should be a sit-com in my head. Anyway, the last thing that I did that counts for a stellar idiocy that had me laughing for a while, was this doozy:

This is what happens when I cook

Now, to top it off, yesterday, when I was getting off the bus at the grocery store, this topped it off. There was a little round woman, very jolly, a sort of Mrs. Claus type, saying “God Bless,” to one and all as they exited. I, as everyone knows, am a hardwired creature, like a cat. I do the same thing, every time. I get up, cane and all and brace myself for the next stop. I don’t like to stand in one place too long. I prefer to be a moving target, as it were. She says something about me not falling, or am I okay, or am I really blind and I hear her say “Or is that your hustle?” It didn’t register for a minute. I stood there, with a blank look, so she repeated herself. I grinned and said, “It’s 3 things; it makes a good weapon, too.” We both laughed, as I got off the bus. That shit cracked me up.

I know I haven't blogged for a few weeks. I've been deliberately lying low, due to my neurological whatever, which is a bore, but there it is. I am pleased  and proud to announce that I will be hosting Jade Kerrion's Double Helix Tour on Wednesday, January 2, 2013! She is a wonderful writer and just a wonderful person. To celebrate the launch of Perfect Betrayal and Perfect Weapon, Perfection Unleashed will be available for only 0.99 at Amazon, (down from $2.99) for the duration of Jade's virtual book tour through March 1, 2013. Her writing is thrilling and I think, prophetic in many ways.